An Update
I know I said I would do a series of posts on observations, and I still intend to, but at the moment real life is just getting in the way. This is just a quick update of what’s happening, and the next post will be about something I really need to get off of my chest.
So, I am rapidly approaching the end of my degree. My final report is due next Tuesday, and after the Thursday after that, I am done. Finished. Leaving my university and likely not coming back (except for graduation based stuff).
I’m not going to lie, it’s a scary prospect. Not accounting for my work placement, I’ve been in full-time education for 19 years. It is literally the only thing I can remember doing. As of September, I start on the beginning of what (at the moment, at least) will be a career in Engineering. Real engineering (it doesn’t get any more real than jet engines…), where the work I do actually has a real purpose.
I will be leaving behind what I know and am comfortable with, a huge number of my friends, and all the other benefits of student life. This is scary beyond belief…
In other news, I am currently bike-less again, as some idiot drove over the front wheel of my bike (fortunately while I wasn’t on it). Needless to say, this is very annoying, not least because I am currently sat on a bus that takes the most roundabout route home possible.
This year I am not going to the graduation ball. In fact, this is the first time since starting university that I’ve not been there in some kind of first aid capacity, and I have zero interest in going as a punter. I had intended to go as first aid, but I haven’t been asked yet, and the unit has upset one of my good friends, so we’ve decided to go on duty the next morning instead. The person who did the upsetting is now also not going, but I have managed to persuade my friend that it isn’t her problem any more (and so she doesn’t need to pick up the pieces after the very likely meltdown).
Speaking of meltdowns, the local adult division is currently having a very slow one. Three of the more progressive members have been made to feel very unwelcome, and so have walked away. As a result, their training program is steadily going down the pan, morale is going to drop (as people realise what they’ve lost), and its all going to go to hell. Of the units six-ish active ambulance qualified volunteers, they now have two actively refusing to do events, two prioritising county level events (me and CycleGuy), leaving two to (fail to) meet the units commitments (meaning other units have to help out).
On the bright side, my unit of young people is going strong. We have just had a very successful sponsored walk (where I got to legitimately play tag for the first time since I left junior school), and have half a dozen things planned for the near future.
Work is still being its normal irritating self (but that’s retail for you), and I’m doing far too many hours for the Organisation (no change there, then), and for the most part I’m enjoying myself.
When things start settling down, I will try to post more frequency. For now, I will get on when I can, and I’m still on Twitter (my lifeline when drowning in my project).
Now, to finish, another musical interlude. Enjoy 
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Observations Part 1 – Pulses
This was prompted by a duty a while back where I and another person ended up doing an impromptu lesson in patient monitoring to half a first aid post. Not a promising start to the duty, but we were told afterwards by quite a few of the members that they appreciated the help.
Observations. Obs. Pulse and Resps. Vital Signs.
Whatever you call them, they’re important. And too many of us (myself included) are really bad at remembering to do them.
I was checking over a report for a patient I had treated, where I had come cycling down to back someone up. Something simple, but significant enough to require a reasonable amount of writing to prove we’d tried to think of everything. As I scanned through the notes, I noted that they’d put down: “patient apparently stable”. I glanced over at the observations box: empty. Now I agreed that the patient was stable (they wouldn’t have wondered off five minutes ago if they weren’t), but if you look at that form there was nothing to back us up. Nothing showing that the patient’s obs were normal, or at least returning to normal, and not shooting off somewhere unpleasant.
Repeat after me: if it isn’t written down, it didn’t happen.
To prove that something isn’t changing significantly, you need at least two data points. One tells you nothing. And they need to be reasonably spaced out. Two sets of obs done in two minutes tells us nothing. A lot of things that could go very wrong happen over a relatively long period of time (at least at first). Getting two sets of obs should be simple: one when they arrive, and one when they leave. Obs every ten minutes or so works well, if you can (obviously life-saving stuff needs to come first). It should only take a minute or so to do, and we don’t have to be getting precise numbers every time. We just need to know what’s going on, and then use that information to help us make decisions (such as, do I take my time and finish tidying this bandage, or do I want to have a paramedic with me yesterday…)
Taking a pulse is a simple technique, anyone with a couple of fingers on one hand should be able to do it, but it does takes practice. However, in my experience, it doesn’t seem to be covered as much as it should by our training. Everyone just assumes that everyone else knows what they’re doing. I’ve been caught out a number of times in training where someone has told me they don’t know what they’re doing. And I’ve caught out a number of people trying to cheat in an assessment by making things up (and holding the wrong part of my wrist…)
This is the method I use on a conscious patient:
- Decide which wrist you’re going to use. Make sure it’s comfortable for the patient, and the arm isn’t squashed beneath them or against something (and cutting off the blood supply).
- Make sure your patient knows you’re going to do a pulse. Like with any technique, if you do this without consent you could technically be assaulting your patient.
- Take the hand as if you are going to shake hands, and gently rotate it around so that their palm is up. Don’t let go, but consider resting it on a hard surface (a leg works well if it isn’t shivering). This means you have control of the arm, and you can keep it still.
- Using the first three fingers on your other hand (never your thumb, which has its own pulse), place your fingers on their wrist, beneath their thumb, next to their radius. You are trying to (gently!) press their radial artery against a bone. Hopefully you should feel their pulse. Don’t push to hard (you may cut of the blood supply, or your patient may just hit you because it hurts), and be prepared to hunt for it. It’ll always be on the thumb side of the arm, but sometimes you’ll have to search (and sometimes it is quite hard to find).
- Count the pulse for 15, 20 or 30 seconds, and then multiply it up. You don’t need to count for an entire minute, we’re not after exact numbers here, this should give you an acceptably accurate number. A normal pulse in an adult is about 60-80 bpm1 (though remember this depends on the patient’s fitness and what they’ve just been doing), and expect a child’s to be faster (and a baby’s faster still). Also pay attention to the quality and regularity of the pulse. Are they strong or weak? Are they skipping beats? Is it a regular pulse (or regularly irregular, or just plain irregular)? All things that are important.
If you can’t find the radial pulse, try the brachial. This one is on the inside of the elbow. It can be quite challenging to find, so practicing this one is a very good idea. If you ever learn to do manual blood pressures (which I hate doing, but we can’t use automatic BP cuffs) you’ll need to know about this one, as this is the one you listen to. As a last resort you can use the carotid (in the neck, next to the trachea on both sides), but this is not very comfortable for a conscious patient (take it from someone who has played at casualty as many times as I have: it is NOT fun). The First Aid Manual has some good pictures on where you can find pulses (page 53).
Keep in mind that if you expect your patient’s blood pressure to be very low (for example when shock is starting to get bad), pulses do start to disappear (radial first). It is worth noting if you can’t find a pulse (don’t be embarrassed or afraid to say you can’t do something), and it is very important to note if a pulse disappears.
Get used to making this one of the first things you do for a patient (after your primary survey, of cause). Not only does it give you a baseline to work from later, but it starts to tell you something of what is going on, and it makes you look like you know what you’re doing (and you have a plan). Finally, if you’re patient is distressed, the act of taking their hand can be very reassuring (I know this one from experience).
Naturally, be alert for people who aren’t comfortable with you touching them (holding hands can be seen as being quite personal) and be prepared to alter your technique to fit. If they won’t let you take a pulse, note that down and move on. It’s not worth alienating someone over. First aid is all about taking the perfect solution and the real world injury and making the two fit.
And don’t do what someone did in an assessment, and move a ‘broken’ arm to take a pulse. Needless to say, they got an earful from their casualty.
The most important things are, in my humble opinion, practice, practice and more practice. Every time you get a patient who’s with you for any length of time (we’re not talking the plaster dispenser ones here), take a pulse. Every time you do a scenario in training, take a pulse. Pester your friends to let you practice on them. Develop your own method of taking a pulse, one that works for you (or pinch mine, that’s what I did). Whatever it takes to get yourself confident in taking pulses.
I’ll cover respiration rates in my next post. These are more difficult to get, but form the other part of the most basic observations we can all do as first aiders.
Opportunities
I’m about (but not straight away) to say something that probably makes me appear very selfish…
As a rule, I have in the past tended to be quite self-effacing (check definition) when it comes to being given opportunities. To be more specific, if there are not enough places to get to an event, I tend to be the sort of person who will offer up his place to another. I like to do things that help other people out, even if it inconveniences or harms me. On a number of occasions, this attitude has least that I have missed out on things that I particularly wanted to do, but there weren’t enough places.
We have a major duty coming up, the first of the season. As always, I said that I would prefer to cycle, but would do anything. Others have been less open-minded ( almost demanding that they be allowed to do whatever…)
As is probably to be expected from an organisation like this, we’re short-staffed. This means that people ( myself included) have been given roles that are less than ideal. Admittedly, I’m on a vehicle, which isn’t terrible, but I probably wont get anything, as is normal when I crew an ambulance… Nevertheless, I’m pretty nonplussed. I’ll do whatever is needed. I figure that at some point this might earn me brownie points, and besides, in my opinion it is the right thing to do…
Now it is possible that, at the last-minute, I’ll get reassigned to a bike. Its happened before, and rumor has it that it has been considered. Naturally, this hasn’t gone down well with some of the others. One person has even gone so far as to encourage me not to take my cycle uniform, so someone else can do it instead ( read: him).
Now I’m sorry. I appreciate that people are disappointed with their roles on the day. However, if I am given the opportunity to cycle, I’m jumping at it… I don’t often get to ride a bike, and I am usually very willing to go wherever I am needed. I see no reason to go against this, just because I’ve been offered a better position and someone else hasn’t.
Of cause, I’m far too tactful (read: timid) to actually challenge that other member on this. I just let it lie, and of cause this probably means he’s assumed I’ve agreed with him. It could be interesting if the situation actually comes up (though I doubt it).
Don’t Make Me Angry
It’s a schools rugby game. Not a small one either, the final in the local schools league, which means everyone is taking it that much more seriously.
We’re over by the side, well out-of-the-way, but close enough that we can see and hear what’s happening on the pitch. The windows are all rolled down, and we’re just lounging in the cab of the ambulance, enjoying the sun and chatting about everything and anything. In short, it’s shaping up as another Q word duty.
A loud yell. A thud, two bodies against the floor, and a groan from the crowd. Silence. Must have been a nasty tackle. We watch, waiting for the players to get up. One does. He’s a little scraped up, but nothing that’ll stop him playing. He looks down at his dazed competitor, offering a hand. And freezing, his face dropping. The crowd goes silent again, and then, through the breeze, “Medic!”
I slip through into the back of the truck while my crewmate jogs out to the pitch. Grabbing the gases and the response bag, I scoot out of the back of the vehicle and walk over. I’ve got all the kit, but there’s no need to rush. My crewmate is in charge of this one, and he doesn’t look that flustered. He certainly has yelled anything at me yet.
I can see from two meters off that our rugby player is in pain. A lot of pain. From a meter off I can see why. His shoulder is most definitely out-of-place. I look to my crewmate as I drop the kit down. ”What do you need?”
“We’re not going to get anything done here. I think shuffle to the back of the vehicle and check things out in the peace and quiet.”
“Spinal?”
We both look at him craning around, looking at everything that is going on and the crowd forming around him.
“Probably not.” We say together, and grin awkwardly. We’ve been working together a while now, we know each other too well.
“Right, so entonox, scoop, cot? Nah, scratch that, we can scoop him straight into the back, will be better on his shoulder.” I eye up the terrain, nothing particularly challenging. ”So straps, anything else?”
“Sounds good. Though, perhaps some crowd control?” The last bit is quiet, for my ears only.
I look around at what looks like both entire teams craning to see what is going on. “I’ll see what I can do.” I stand up and start in a reasonable tone: “Alright guys, let’s have some space to work please.” A couple of people shuffle back, but it appears that a dislocation is just too interesting to leave. ”Seriously guys, you aren’t helping. Give us some room.”
Slowly everyone backs off, far enough at least to let me get out and bring the kit back.
Someone who looks distinctly like a coach steps in front of me, deliberately blocking my path. ”What’s going on?”
I ignore the obvious answer of we’re treating someone, going instead for “I’m just getting some equipment, then we’ll get our friend back there moved into our vehicle.”
“How long’s this going to take?”
“As long as it takes. We need to be sure we don’t do any more damage.”
“Can’t you just put it back in and walk him off? We have a game to finish here.”
“Only if you fancy explaining to his parents why he will never use his arm again. Besides, you have three other pitches you can use, if you’re in a hurry.” I know that I’m skating the edge of being rude, but you’re annoying me and I have a patient to look after. He looks grumpy. ”Look, the sooner you let me get this kit, the sooner we’ll be out of your way.” I don’t think that’s an appreciated comment, but at least he does move.
A brisk walk to the ambulance, a brief argument with the scoop stretcher, and then I’m on my way back with magic pain killing gas in one hand and jack of all trades lifting equipment in the other. And yet again I’m facing a crowd, and this time I’ve got minimal patience left. ”GUYS!” A single syllable projected across the entire field. Even I’m a little stunned by the silence that rolls back. ”Move OUT of my way. Give us room so that we can do our job.” Youth Leader training kicks in. Act assuming compliance. I step forward purposefully and the crowd spreads out, dispersing before my eyes. Recognise good behaviour. ”Thank you guys.”
My crewmate looks at me, eyes wide and jaw lowered.
“Close your mouth, you’ll catch something.” The residual annoyance makes it a little more of a snap than I intended, but I soften it with a grin.
Our patient manages a strained laugh through the pain as my crewmates’ mouth snaps shut with a click. He takes the entonox from me, apparently grateful for something to do to cover the confusion, and I start explaining the lift and shift process to our patient. Once his pain has gone away a little (and he’s high enough not to care about what’s left), we scoop and scoot, and the rest of the job is a fairly routine transport.
As we’re packing up at the hospital, my crewmate looks at me over the cot we’re re-making. ”Are you okay? You sounded pretty annoyed back there with the crowd.”
I shrug. ”That was just lack of patience. You’ll know when I’m angry.” He looks at me questioningly, and I just smile.
Pain Scores and Young Children
An important lesson I learned today while on duty. There is very little point asking a small child for a pain score.
This particular little person had fallen down a couple of steps, and had been brought down to be checked over. He didn’t have any pain anywhere significant (like the back of the neck), and neither did he seem to be in any particular distress. Normal practice suggests that I then try and have him quantify his pain level, so that I can work out if there’s something more going on. I go through the rigmarole of explaining ‘where 1 is next to nothing (as I gently poke him for demonstration) and 10 is the worst thing you have ever felt’, and his first answer “9″. Now in my experience, people who have 9/10 pain and and show no signs of it have either been really lucky (and so 10/10 is relatively low), have an incredible pain threshold (but even so…) or might possibly be stretching the truth a little. Looking at this little guy, his mother and I went for the latter. So I asked him if he was really sure it was 9/10, and stressed how important it is to tell the truth. So he now says 6, because that’s his age. Cue much rolling of eyes from me, my crewmate and his mother, and I give up.
The important lesson here, I think, is that I had made the mistake of treating this child like a little adult, and tried to apply a technique aimed at adults to someone who didn’t really understand what I was asking, let alone why. Children are not little adults, though it can be easy to forget this sometimes, and remembering this is important.
Ambulance Frustration
You’ve broken your arm, and you have my sympathy. You were in quite a bit of pain, but the paramedic gave you a lot of nice drugs and you’re not feeling too shabby now. You now need a trip to the local children’s hospital, not a short journey.
Because the paramedic has given you some drugs, the paramedic needs to come along. Fair enough, one of the side effects of morphine is respiratory arrest, and so we need to have something like naloxone available just in case. This isn’t a drug I can give, so the paramedic is needed. Not a problem, we can take two in the back along with a patient.
Except, because you’re under 16, your mother also really needs to come along. Again, this wouldn’t be a particular issue, if it was just you, and about a year ago it wouldn’t have been an issue even with the paramedic along (at least, not officially).
Unfortunately, someone cocked up the weighing of the vehicle, and we’re not really sure if the weight limit can take three people plus a patient in the back. Counting a crew of two (driver and attendant), a patient, a parent and a paramedic, we’re over our limit, and only one person on the crew is expendable: the attendant. Me.
Off my truck goes, and I’m left stood in the primary treatment centre, and I’m in a bit of a fix. I can’t commit myself to a patient in the treatment centre, because I don’t know when my truck will be back and I’ll need to be available for that straight away. I can’t transfer to another vehicle, this will leave someone else without a ride. This leaves me unable to treat, unable to transport, and unable to really do anything.
My crew-mate eventually gets back, but it’s someone else’s turn to get a patient, and nothing else needs transporting. We get a 999 call, which I could respond to, but it gets given to another crew (who’ve already dealt with and transported a patient) and they ignore us when my crew-mate and I ask them to swap.
Now I know this was just bad luck. There wasn’t anything done that was unreasonable (though that last crew did annoy me), but that didn’t leave me any less frustrated. I hadn’t seen a patient all weekend, and still haven’t seen any patient on an ambulance that has needed me to use my advanced skills, and given my continuing track record it’s going to be a long time before I do. Combined with not being able to do NHS shifts any more, this leaves me wondering whether qualifying was actually worth the stress.
Of cause, this was then compounded by everyone else asking if I enjoyed my transport, and then overly lamenting when I tell them that I didn’t actually get to go on it. Oh, and a Control officer going ‘had we known (which they did), we could have sorted something for you’, which irritated me, a lot. Not to mention my friend going on and on and on about the people he’d treated that day, and not getting the hint that I had had a shit day and didn’t want to talk about it.
Still, I’ll probably be crewing during major duty season next year, so I might get something.
Or I might just get sat somewhere, bored out of my skull with an irritating crew mate. Listening to everyone else being kept busy, and wishing I was out on a bike, getting to do something…
Like this:
Hitting the Speed Bumps
Image via Wikipedia
As an organisation (or, at least, in my part of the organisation), we are very keen at helping out the local ambulance service. By this I mean we will send out crews on ambulances (and occasionally on bikes) to help the service respond to 999 calls. Understandably, this could only be done by experienced members, and one of the criteria for the ambulance work was a certain number of hours third crewing on those shifts. This means working with two experienced members to build up some experience dealing with patients potentially more serious than anything I’ve ever dealt with before, which I’m strongly in favour of. I don’t think I’d be happy going out on a shift without doing this first.
Unfortunately, since I qualified, it is no longer possible to third crew on any of our vehicles. Something to do with weight limits on the vehicles (which, given many of them are transit vans modified into ambulances, not necessarily their original design role). This is very frustrating for me, as it means I can’t gain the experience needed to do NHS support.
To make matters worse, there are very few of us in this position (probably about 3 or 4), and so nobody at county level cares enough to do something about it. As far as they’re concerned, there are enough people to cover the shifts, and so there isn’t a problem. This leaves me, and those few others, in a catch-22 situation: without having the needed experience, we aren’t able to gain the experience.
Needless to say, this is very frustrating.
A little while back, there was a possible solution. Our CRU lead sent us an email looking for interest in doing NHS cover on the bikes over Christmas. The roads get very busy in BigCity when everyone is doing their Christmas shopping, and the bikes can get around a lot easier than road ambulances. A load of us (apparently) applied, and it looked like it would go ahead. I even delayed heading home for Christmas around this. A couple of us entertained the thought that this might count towards us getting some experience towards the ambulance work.
Of cause, it never happened. And we only found that out for certain a couple of days before the period was due to end. The reasons given was lack of interest (yeah right), other duty commitments (*looks at depressingly empty duties book*) and lack of funding (*sigh*). Some of the more cynical amongst us suspect our useless County CRU lead is also to blame, but ho-hum.
All I’ve got to hope, in the nicest possible way to my patients, is that I get something interesting to do on the normal shift. Which, given my track record on a vehicle (nine or ten shifts, one patient transported for a minor injury) seems rather unlikely. The only time I might have had an interesting job, someone kicked me off my truck (story to follow).
I think, as far as possible, I’ll try to stick with the bikes. At least on them I get something to do (and some useful exercise), giving me some experience treating, even if it’s not transporting someone…
My friend and I are already planning what out of county events we want to do. Hopefully we’ll have a good yeah helping out our colleagues in the big city. At least there they know how well a bike unit can work…
Related articles
- Ambulance Excitement (walkingplasterdispenser.wordpress.com)
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Why I Volunteer
One of the most common questions I am asked (along with ‘Are you paid for this?’ and ‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever dealt with?’) is ‘How do you do this for free?’ This usually happens about the time when I’m trying to stop a drunk student from drowning in their own vomit, while avoiding getting vomited on myself, and their friend is on the other side trying not to vomit. My stock answer is ‘Because it’s fun!’
Even more often, when I’m knee-deep in the worst of the politics and fighting against the people who are too quick to tell us what we are incapable of doing and the people who don’t care and the people who don’t want to lose their power, I wonder why I do it. I spend hundreds of hours a year doing work for a cause I passionately believe in, and in return I get people try to work against me because I want to improve things and they don’t want to leave the happy little rut that they’ve dug themselves.
A short time ago, I dealt with a patient at a Half Marathon, while working on a bicycle. They weren’t particularly unwell, but they had fainted and were a bit shaken up. They hadn’t run anywhere near that distance before, and weren’t used to all the sensations of their body saying ‘that wasn’t such a good idea, let’s not do that again’. All put together, they got a bit worried, and worked themselves up in to what I’m pretty sure was a full-blown panic attack. And I don’t just mean a bit of hyperventilation that quickly cleared up. They were genuinely terrified, kept fainting from the unbalancing hyperventilation does to your body, which just kept making things worse.
In the end, I called an ambulance for them and got them shipped off to the main treatment center, where someone would have the time to care for them and help them calm down properly. As soon as they were sent off, I was sent to another collapse, and I put the entire incident out of my mind.
After the spending the rest of the day zipping up and down the course, I was stood down and headed to the main First Aid post to grab some personal kit and help pack everything up.
While I was there, I bumped in to my patient from earlier. They had just been discharged and were going home with their mother. They both stopped when they spotted me, and my patient asked if I had been the person with them out on the course.
“Yes, I think so. How are you now?” I replied.
“Much better now, thank you.”
“Do you know what was wrong?” The mother chimed in.
“I can’t say for absolute certain, but I think you had a panic attack.” I went to explain how a panic attack was a scary condition, but usually self-limiting and nothing to be overly concerned about. My patient nodded along with my explanation, and then commented that she couldn’t really remember what happened.
“I just remember being convinced that I was going to die, but I remember you being there, and talking to me, and holding my hand, and I knew that I would be okay.” I didn’t really know how to reply to that.
To me, the treatment didn’t seem that much. A simple, non-life-threatening condition that, even if I did nothing, would most likely pass on its own, which I passed on to someone as soon as it looked like it would take a long time to deal with. Fifteen-ish minutes on scene, before moving on to the next job, patient already out of my mind.
But in those fifteen minutes, I helped out a terrified person, taking away some of their fear just by being there. And to that person, I made all the difference.
This is why I volunteer.
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Ambulance Excitement
Image via Wikipedia
Okay, I’m really rather excited again.
First things first, it looks like I’ve passed the last bit of my ambulance crew training. This means I’m now fully qualified to crew an ambulance (eep!) and transport an emergency patient (ahh!). I have a year’s probation to complete, but that only limits who I can crew with (which doesn’t change anything, because I can’t drive). Given the number of sleepless nights the course caused me, as well as how long I spent training, this is really good news. It might mean I can’t cycle as much as I’d like to (which is sad 
) but it will definitely open up a few new opportunities of events I can get to.
Second, I have just heard when I am getting my first duty on an ambulance: at the end of the week… I qualified on Sunday… In the upcoming three-day event, I am on an ambulance for two days (during which I’m almost certain to get something…) and am in charge of people on the remaining one. This is even more scary. I have never had actual responsibility at a major event. Well nothing more than “Keep an ear on the radio, I’m just going to the loo.” Being in charge of about one-third of the foot patrols present is not something I’d expected to do, not least because I’d expected to spend most of the days as a foot patrol myself, or in a treatment centre at best.
So yes, life is getting interesting in the Organisation at the moment.
Oh, and try not to get injured if you’re attending a three-day event this weekend. It might just be me taking you to A&E.
…
Well, try not to get injured anyway…
Cycle Response Run
We’re standing by outside the recruitment post. Our bikes are attracting a lot of attention: a push bike with Ambulance blazoned across it is an unusual sight.
“992, 992 from Control.”
I turn away from the kids I’ve been explaining the bikes to. ”Go ahead Control.”
“Respond under emergency conditions to romeo-one-five. Collapsed child.”
I peer at my map, matching up R15 to where I currently am. Bloody hell, we’re the other side the city. I turn to see my partner already mounting up. To the kids: “Sorry guys, got to go.” I jump on to my bike, kick the stand away, and push off.
My partner pulls off ahead, and I slip in behind him. I was good, and left my bike in a low gear when I pulled up. We accelerate away, shifting up the gears until we’re racing along the road at a respectable rate.
It’s dusk, the perfect time for visibility. What’s left of the sunlight makes our fluorescent jackets glow, while it’s dark enough for the reflective strips shine in every light. Nobody should fail to see us as we race past.
We’re in luck. Most of the route is a closed road. We have the tarmac to ourselves. We make good time, getting half way to the far side of the event to the other before we know it.
We’re getting to the busy part now. Slowing down a little, we weave between clumps of people, earning a few glares as we take a turn faster than perhaps people would like. We shift down, cutting out speed to safely navigate around the dawdling obstacles.
The crowd thickens. The spaces between the groups narrow. We start to lose speed, stuck behind people wandering along, not expecting two cyclists to try to barge their way through.
On goes my siren. They sound a bit weird, too high-pitched, but they certainly grab people’s attention. People turn and stare. A path opens up in the crowd, and we regain a little of our lost momentum.
One group turn and stare. We approach, weaving left and right, trying to find a way past. My siren is still going full blast, and it’s joined by my partner’s electronic buzzer. The harsh sound cuts across the sounds of the crowd, making people wince, but still they stand, staring at us like rabbits in our headlights.
We’ve slowed to a crawl, nowhere to go. Frantically we wave at them. “Make a path!”
Comprehension dawns. They dawdle out of our way, and we pull off again. Finally, a clear path opens, the crowd finally getting the hint that the loud, horrible noise means ‘we’re in a hurry, get out of the way’, not ‘everyone stop and stare’.
We career around the last few corners, the road finally clear again. We almost reach a sprint as we close in on our destination. I’ve been listening in to the radio as much as I can, in the hope that we get stood down, or someone got their first. No such luck.
We skid to a halt at the mouth of the road, screeching disc brakes announcing our presence better than any siren. The road is short. If anyone was collapsed there, we’d be able to see them.
My partner circles up and down the road, scouting the area, while I hold a slightly breathless conversation on the radio, confirming the location of the call. Control tries to call back the original caller, while we lean up against our bikes, catching our breath.
Eventually they stand us down. Apparently our ‘collapse’ had got back up again when his parent’s didn’t give him all the fuss he wanted. Of cause, they hadn’t thought to stand us down.
We took the slow route back to the first aid post…
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